


Cross My Heart (Hope To Die)

by StevesKhakis (orphan_account)



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Almost angst but then I'm like fuck it, Being Walked In On, Billy Is Emotionally Constipated, Blow Jobs, Boys Kissing, Boys being gay during detention, Flangst I guess?, M/M, Pigtail Pulling, Stereotypical 80's romance, Steve isn't as dense as you'd think, This is straight out of a John Hughes movie, but make it gay, i mean they're in love they're just dumb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:09:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21748807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/StevesKhakis
Summary: The one in which Steve isn't oblivious to Billy having a crush on him and Billy is, surprisingly, not as smooth and charming as you'd think.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 25
Kudos: 313





	Cross My Heart (Hope To Die)

Detention.

Fucking _Detention_.

On a goddamn Saturday morning.

It sounds like a joke, a _very_ bad one, and Steve wishes it was, but— But it _really_ isn’t. The unforgiving morning sun is glaring down at him and Steve thinks he shouldn't be here. He should be at home, where he can wear sweatpants, eat cereal straight out of the box and put his feet on the coffee table. At home, where the only reason to get out of bed on a Saturday morning is to swim in a giant pool, maybe, or to take a shower so long the entire cul-de-sac runs out of hot water.

He should be rinsing the remains of chlorine off of his skin, right now. Pouring absurd amounts of shampoo in his hair, making it stand in stupid directions.

He should be dancing around in his living room in nothing but undies.

Instead, he's getting out of his stupid fucking Beamer after parking it on his usual spot, you know. Like he does on week days— It feels so weird and _wrong_ to be doing it on a Saturday morning. Wearing his stupid light wash jeans and a stupid polo shirt when he should be sleeping, buried under a dozen comforters. Drooling on his pillow. Doing anything but _being here_.

Steve knows.

He fucking _knows_ he’s not the brightest student, he knows he’s pretty fucking dense, sometimes. He fucking sucks at Math. Sucks at History and Spanish, too. 

But,

_Detention?_

_On a goddamn Saturday morning?_

This is honestly unfair.

And yeah, Steve isn't under any illusions here, nor is he trying to act like he's never seen the principal’s office before. He’s had to clap quite a few chalkboard erasers in his time. But as he’s walking down the empty corridors of Hawkins High, he decides, this is a _whole_ new level of humiliation.

And what’s even worse is that, this whole detention _thing—_ Yeah, it— It's kind of Billy Hargrove's fault, not Steve's. Well, maybe it is _partially_ Steve's fault, but Billy started it. Billy, the trashy metalhead that loves pushing and shoving Steve way past the edge of his sanity. Billy, who claims to come from San Diego, but Steve’s pretty damn sure that he came straight from the Devil’s trailer park. Located right in the goddamn fifth circle of hell.

But, alright. All details concerning Billy Hargrove's true origins can be discussed some other time. Right now— Detention.

When Steve finally enters the History classroom, Billy is already there. And it’s weird to think that a piece of shit like him is actually punctual, but he is _already there_ with his back reclined fully into the teacher’s chair. His biker boots are kicked up on the teacher’s desk, too, literal chunks of dirt staining a folder filled with paperwork. Like the guy thinks he undoubtedly owns the place. He looks so damn comfortable Steve can't help but think that maybe he does. That perhaps since the day he first stepped on Hawkins, he’s spent his every Saturday morning here.

Steve walks to the very back of the classroom, successfully ignoring Billy’s piercing stare. He lets his backpack fall to the floor and silently drags out a chair, sinking in it as deeply as possible. Hunching his upper body over the desk.

Maybe, if he screws his eyes shut hard enough, maybe, just fucking _maybe_ , the hours will go by quickly, and soon enough he’ll be back home and have that movie marathon with Robin. They’ve been raving about it nonstop for weeks _—_ Steve, especially. He's just fucking stocked to spend his weekend with someone actually his age and not, well _—_ A fucking preteen.

The thing is that he can’t even concentrate on his own thoughts _—_ Can’t even _think_ of the names of the movies Robin wants to show him. He's pretty sure that there are at least three different _Star Wars_ movies, but it sounds like Billy is continuously snapping a rubber band or something and,

What the fuck is that all about?

Billy is being obnoxious and loud just for the heck of it. Steve's starting to think that maybe the guy is the human equivalent of an unecessary exclamation point. Or maybe he's more like having popcorn stuck in between his teeth during a movie night. He’s annoying, exasperating and Steve, well. He kind of wants to stick his fingers inside his own mouth to rip the guy out but he _also_ doesn’t want the people sitting next to him to think he's a Neanderthal, so he just silently pokes at the gaps in between his teeth with his tongue until the flick is over.

Until tip of his tongue is bleeding.

Billy snaps a finger and it sounds like a thunder ripping the sky open. Steve can already perceive the gross coppery taste in his mouth.

“Not gonna say anything, pretty boy?” He finally sneers, reclining back on the chair. Steve can tell the guy had been dying to speak this whole time. He doesn't know how to keep his mouth shut. “That’s fun. Yesterday you had so much shit to say and today’s like the cat ate your tongue.”

“Guess it's a shame it didn’t eat _yours._ ” Steve mutters, more so to himself, earning one of those shit-eating grins with pink tongue caught in between teeth that are just so innherently Billy at this point.

“I thought it was clear that our little _conversation_ wasn’t over.”

It wasn’t a conversation, actually. It was more like a fist-fight. One in which Billy was winning, of course. Somehow, Steve manages not to make a comment.

“No?” Steve asks, tone almost condescendent. His bushy eyebrows go straight, “Is there anything left to say?”

“’Course there _is_ , dickhead.” Billy drawls and his eyebrows furrow, like it’s obvious and Steve's really fucking dumb for not knowing. “You still haven’t apologized to me.”

The _audacity_.

Steve's mouth does about a dozen different things until he finally manages to blurt out a very heart-felt, “… _What_?”

“Do I need to remind you that it’s _your_ fault, asshole, that we’re locked up in this shithole?" Billy's blue eyes go wide and he raises his arms up to point at their surroundings, as if trying to make a point, "On a goddamn _Saturday_?”

Steve swallows, and he's pretty sure his eyes go wild for a few seconds.

“You’re _not_ being serious—" Steve gapes at him, "You’re not being fucking _serious,_ right, Hargrove?” He can feel his ears burning the fuck up; they’re probably cherry red at this point— Billy grins, like he’s enjoying every second of it. “I’m _not_ sorry, what the hell should I be sorry for? You’re the one _always_ trying to get a rise out of me.”

Billy rolls his eyes. The bruise on his cheekbone is on full display when he turns his head to look out the window, and Steve feels a little smug, because, like. He _finally_ managed to get his hands on Billy— Finally managed to leave his mark for everyone to seel. Finally managed to make him pay for all the humiliation and the embarrassment he has made Steve experience ever since he got here.

Sort of.

“You think everything revolves around you, huh? That’s cute.” Billy scoffs, crossing his arms. “Sorry to burst your bubble, my guy, but you’re not hot shit around here anymore.”

Steve kinda wants to ask the guy why he's up Steve's ass 24/7 then, if he's not hot shit anymore. He simply purses his lips and looks down at his pale hands, though. Someone has to be the bigger man here, and Billy is very clearly not well equipped for that. At least not in the emotional aspect of things.

Their mean, freshly-spewed words linger in the air. Steve's pride stings, and Billy stares at him bitterly.

Steve chooses to back out of the argument, eyes drifting away from Billy. Lower lip being chewed thoughtlessly. Billy has majored in being an asshole, and as intent as Steve's been at standing up for himself lately, acting like things are chill is probably for the best here.

Nancy is dating that Byers guy now. Has been for a while, actually.

His college application essay still sucks.

His dad says he’ll work at that stupid video store full time for the rest of his life if he doesn’t get his shit together.

The coach has been benching him more and more often ever since Billy appeared.

It's cool, it's chill. Being told you're not top dog anymore. It doesn't matter.

Maybe Billy doesn't get it— Maybe he does and is acting like it doesn't get through his head, but. This whole detention thing is _their_ fault.

 _Their_ fault.

There are only so many times one Steve Harrington can be shoved around a basketball court before going unhinged, right? _Especially_ when the guy said Steve is punching keeps laughing. Like Steve's blows do nothing but tickle him.

The classroom gets oddly silent after that.

As silent as it could possibly get with _Billy Hargrove_ in the room, that is.

Billy Hargrove, an unnecessary exclamation point right at the end of every goddamn sentence. Tapping on the desk with his fingers. Playing with his Zippo. Working the zipper of his jacket all the way up and then down. It’s— It's a fucking nightmare _._

And Steve, you know. He's just trying to relax. Trying to sleep. Trying to _fucking die_ because even death would be welcomed at this point—

“ _Jesus_ , stop it!”

Billy laughs at that, loud and genuine. Presses his back against the padded backrest. “You have some anger issues going on, pretty boy.”

Oh, you have no fucking idea.

"You're far too pretty to be this mad." Billy goes to add, cracking his knuckles because _Jesus on a motherfucking cracker_ , he does _not_ know how to keep it quiet. "Have you ever considered seeking therapy?"

Steve hops out of his seat so fast he gets a little dizzy. “Just, oh my God— _shut up_ — You, keep your mouth shut!”

Billy places his aviators on the desk, stands up with his hands splayed on the wooden surface, “Say that again,” He hisses, “I fucking _dare_ you,”

So Steve gets closer now, _really_ fucking close because this situation is edging on unbearable. He’s sure not even the subjects at the Hawkins Lab have it _this_ bad, “Shut, _the hell_ , _up_ ,” He drawls with a bratty tone, punctuating every word with a pause. “I just want this to be over, and— And I’m sure it’ll be easier and faster if you just, _shut up_.”

Billy’s baby blues burn with a fire that Steve is all too familiar with by now. It’s that kind of wicked gaze that he seems to have perfected overtime. The one that means that Steve better have a death wish because he's in for a real beating.

“How about you _make me_ , you whiny little bitch,” Billy's nails are scrapping so hard on the wooden surface, he’s most likely leaving scratches on it.

Steve can’t pinpoint the exact moment in which he got so close, but he can see it,

He can see how fucking thick Billy’s eyelashes are as he looks down at him through half-lidded eyes, how surprisingly pink his lips look, that little scar that goes right through his eyebrow,

“Don’t call me _that._ ”

Billy grins, canines showing. “Don’t act like one, then.” Steve’s teeth are grinding from how clenched his jaw is when Billy points at him, his finger practically touching the tip of his nose, “I’m done with your shit, Harrington. You punched me yesterday, you _actually_ punched me—”

Steve has no idea why he hasn’t left yet— He _knows_ he should, the teacher isn't even here. But his ego clings to that wooden desk, refusing to let Billy win for what feels like the hundredth time.

“Keep your hands offa me and you’ll _never_ hear from me again, I guarantee you.”

“Well, that’s the hard part,” He finally retracts, and Steve can breathe something other than Billy’s whiskey-infused breath, “’Cause when I see a loser like you, I can’t help but want to torn him into pieces. It’s ingrained in my DNA, I guess.” He shrugs, “Survival of the fittest and all that crap.”

“Lucky me.” Steve mutters sarcastically, grabbing the aviators from the table and eyeing them. They are in pretty good condition, which— Is _weird_ , considering they belong to Billy The Infernal Scum Hargrove.

“You _sure_ are,” Billy nods, “Now apologize.”

“For what?” Steve’s tongue pokes the side of his cheek, annoyed, “For being the object of your obsession ever since you came to this town?”

Billy huffs, rolls his eyes, “That’s _bullshit_ , Harrington.”

“ _You’re_ bullshit.”

Ha.

Billy’s leather-clad hand reaches out. Thumbs all along Steve’s jawline, measuredly and with no warning.

And it’s _weird—_ Steve is weirded the fuck out. Flinches at the contact. Wants to retract, but Billy’s quicker than him and before he can move away,

A slap lands on his left cheek, the one in which those two little moles sit right next to each other.

Anyone would probably expect a slap from Billy Fucking Hargrove to be violent and painful, capable of making Steve’s ass land on the floor, but this was actually gentle? It sure stings in Steve’s pride, but it doesn’t really hurt, not enough to make the skin redden or the skull buzz,

But then Billy has the nerve,

He has the fucking _balls_ ,

To whistle,

And mimic the sound of a crowd cheering.

Steve thinks that it’s a shame that there are no photographers in the room, because he’s ready to attack Billy National Geographic style. He lunges at him, like a beast, crawling over the desk, making folders and papers fall to the floor on the process and he feels his eyes growing comically angry when he yells, “You’re fucking _dead!_ ”

And Billy _is_ going to die, Steve thinks as he punches the guy. His gravestone has already been inscribed. Billy just needs to stop cackling like a lunatic and then he’ll be dead.

_“What is this?!”_

Steve stumbles back immediately, his body colliding with the chair, putting his hands behind his back, still holding the aviators and feigning innocence as best as he can. Standing at the door are both Mr. Bolton, the Basketball coach, and Mrs. Bell, who is the one supposed to supervise the boys during detention time but ran late for some reason. She’s showing up now, in the most inopportune moment, because that’s just how Steve’s luck always is.

It's a shitty fucking life, and now Steve is stuttering like a dumbass, “ _It’s nothing—_ Nothing, I just—”

“Thank _God_ you’re here.” Billy interrupts, getting close to the authority figures, “Harrington has been making my life _miserable_ ever since he came here. I swear to god,” He says, clutching at his pendant, “I was just minding my own business!”

Steve’s jaw is somewhere on the floor. He gasps in utter disbelief and then he just goes, “You’re _fucking—_ ”

“ _Steven_ ,” Mrs. Bell whines, horrified, straightening her blouse, “Please watch your language.”

“ _I’m sorry!_ ” Steve yelled, yet again, “I’m sorry, but he slapped me, _he slapped me_ right before you entered the room, and I—”

“Is that true, Hargrove?” The coach questions with a low tone, crossing his arms and looking down at the blond boy, “I’ve seen how rough you get sometimes during basketball practices.”

Sometimes?

Billy swallows and turns his face so that the bruise he has on his cheek is more visible, “Looks like _I’m_ the one who’s been getting beat up lately, sir.”

The guy is a fucking actor. He deserves to be beaten to death with an Oscar.

He continues with his award-worthy performance, “’Sides, isn’t that the whole reason why we’re here in the first place? This guy needs counseling. I know he doesn’t mean to be _that_ violent but,” Billy lifts his hands and looks at the teacher, “I don’t know what would have happened to me, had you come later.”

Steve hunches and sighs heavily. Lying bastard. Hypocrite. Fucking—

“That bruise is not looking good, kid,” Mr. Bolton states, studying Billy’s face closely before his gaze lands back on the teacher, “Can’t you do an exception for him and expunge him from detention? Just this one time.”

The coach’s intentions are pretty transparent to Steve, despite how smooth he’s trying to be. Billy is like, his star player right now, his golden child, _Of course_ the coach wants him to go home early. Steve had been given that treatment in the past.

Back when he was King Steve, that is. He’s more like _Pleb_ Steve these days.

Mrs. Bell thinks for a while, or pretends to do so, because it’s like they both have a soft spot for Hargrove now, and she’s twirling the silver ring in her pointer finger as the corners of her over-lined lips turn up and, “Yes, that’s possible.” She nods, “The young man looks like he indeed needs some rest.”

Is resting even a word in Billy’s vocabulary? He’ll just set on fire the first trashcan he can find and get his ass arrested once he’s out of that stupid classroom and Steve feels his stomach disintegrating when Billy smiles directly at him, wide and triumphant,

Because he won _again,_ he knows he has won,

And then grabs his jacket and leaves.

“And you, Steven,” She continues once Billy has left, like she’s trying to save Steve from the potential humiliation, like this whole thing hasn’t been excruciating enough already, “Your father will be getting a call from me.” And she _truly_ sounds like she’s offended to the max.

Great, just _great_. Fucking peachy.

“This is _so_ unlike you, son.” The coach adds and Steve feels like being hit by a truck as he goes back to his seat.

He is now like, an hour and a half away from freedom. In addition, he finally has the peace and quiet he had been craving all morning, but he doesn’t want it anymore, because, like.

Silence allows for uncalled thoughts to creep in Steve's head, like when he’s lying awake in his bed at 3:00am, wondering if his parents are disappointed of having a kid like him, right? And Billy’s aviators are sitting on top of his desk and he keeps looking at them, keeps thinking about the way he smiled right after leaving, and Steve’s positively stewing in his own anger as the clock ticks.

The way Billy manages to make the people around him bend to his will like they are Gumbo —or is it Gumby?— Is beyond Steve. From petite brunette girls to teachers, Billy can mold _anyone_ into _anything_ he wants.

Chances are he thinks he can do the same to Steve, but he won’t, Steve thinks really hard, not with his glimmery blue eyes or his white teeth or his chaotic charm that is so goddamn hard to resist—

Steve swallows. He looks at the teacher, like he thinks she’s listening to his thoughts, but she isn’t. She’s sitting behind her desk, eyes trained on a paperback with lilacs on the cover. Good. Thank God.

And going back to Billy,

What’s up with the guy? Why is he so fixated on Steve? He stole his spot on the Basketball team, his friend group, his status, his metaphorical crown, what else is he after?

Nancy’s ass?

Steve’s own ass?

Steve’s breathe hitches and his eyes go wide.

He has unlocked a revelation.

“Is everything okay, Mr. Harrington?” Mrs. Bell questions after she notices how antsy the boy is acting on his seat, her eyes barely lifting from the book she’s reading.

“No, I just— I mean, _yeah_. Yeah, I’m okay. I’m sorry.”

She makes a face. She’s pretty sure the bambi-eyed boy is doing drugs.

Steve buries his face deep in between his arms as they rest on top of his desk.

“ _Goddammit._ ”

Steve couldn’t have taken more than a dozen steps when he stopped dead on his tracks. The sight of Billy Hargrove resting against the wall right towards the end of the hall, left hand flickering with his Zippo, immediately catches Steve’s brown eyes.

“ _Shit_ ,” He mutters, under his breath, because Billy might as well just be shit under Steve’s white Nikes at this point, he can’t take a fucking step without being reminded of the smell, and

And Billy _sees_ him, of course, because even the quietest noises reverberate through such a big, empty space. Steve turns and heads for the hall to his right before Billy can even think of a smart-ass comment to toss at him from the distance.

It’s doesn’t take too long for Billy to track Steve down. Especially when Steve is deliberately stomping around like he wants to get caught, like he knows he’s a snack and is begging to be devoured.

“What do we have here?” Billy asks with his usual bite, closing the bathroom door after entering and resting against it while crossing his arms, “Looks like there’s only one way out of here, and it’s through me,” He points at himself, a devious grin plastered on his face,

“Can I ask you something, Hargrove?” Steve says, turning around, and there’s a smug expression on his face Billy has never seen before. He sure as hell doesn’t like it.

Still, he lifts one eyebrow and goes, “Spit it out.”

“Why do you keep bothering me?” Steve questions, tilts his head to the side, “I’m sure there are at least a couple hundred other people living in Hawkins. It’s like you want me to punch you in the face again or something.”

Steve is ready for the _‘I’m always up your ass because you’re a loser’_ , or the ‘ _I just don’t want you to forget who’s King now,’_

Instead, all he gets is a, “Can’t keep your hands to yourself, Harrington?” And Steve is so close, so goddamn close he can feel the heat radiating from the broad, toned body standing in front of him, threatening to burn him to ashes.

“You’re the one who can’t keep your hands to yourself, Billy.”

Billy snorts, “ _C’mon_ , gimme a fucking break.”

Steve smiles, inhales, says “…You’ve been pulling my pigtails all this time.”

And, _fucking hell,_

It takes Billy a little too long to reply, which just says a lot more than whatever crap he’s trying to think of, in Steve’s opinion, and it’s like,

It’s like the floor has become super interesting all of a sudden, because he can’t drag his baby blues back up. He chews on his lips, “Bullshit, Harrington.”

“No, look at me.” Steve demands and Billy rolls his eyes, but eventually looks at Steve. The blond boy looks like an elementary schooler that just got caught cheating on a test, legs bouncing nervously and everything, “Why are you still here? They _expunged_ you—”

Billy is visibly uneasy. He obviously thinks he’s a natural-born predator, hence, he doesn’t like to be preyed on. He sighs deeply and steps to the side, which is a relief because he’s no longer inches apart from Steve Harrington’s face, “You have my sunglasses, _Braniac._ ”

And it’s _bullshit, absolute_ bullshit, and Steve wants to scream ‘bullshit’ at the top of lungs like a tipsy Nancy inside of Tina’s bathroom on a Halloween night because, it’s not like Billy needs those goddamn aviators to breathe, does he? Did he really wait almost two hours standing on that hall just to get them back?

“Just,” Billy swallows, “Just— Just give ‘em back and you’re good to go.” He uses his hand to motion at the now unobstructed door like he honestly just wants to get over with whatever the fuck it is that is going on right now, and suddenly he looks his age, he sounds his age, _hell,_ he’s even almost an inch smaller than Steve and Steve had never noticed.

With all this new gathered information and a very spooked Billy being crowded against the wall of the boys’ bathroom, Steve looks down at the front pocket of his light-wash jeans, the hinge of Billy’s sunglasses peeking out as he shoves his hand inside and pulls them out,

Only to unceremoniously shove them inside of Billy’s front pocket.

And it seems like Billy is holding his breath as he looks down and sees Steve’s hand slipping further into his jeans, the heat emanating from his inner thigh mixed with his leathery, minty scent setting off all kinds of alarms in Steve’s body,

His lips quiver, his pulse quickens and his fucking knees feel like giving up and Steve knows he needs to act quick before, before he freezes and dies on the spot,

So he closes the gap between the two of them, his hand still inside of Billy’s pocket as he kisses the blond boy softly, running his very pink and very plump lips and his _tongue_ all over Billy’s lips. Hargrove is too shocked to respond, absolutely frozen in place like his body is made out of liquid nitrogen. Steve doesn’t mind, he’s ready to turn it into steam.

The mix between Billy’s taste and his perfectly shaped cupid’s bow with the stubble growing under his bottom lip is like a cold can of beer Steve had been _dying_ to shotgun without even knowing.

But the lip-lock is good, until it isn’t.

It isn’t, because Billy is _still_ not responding, he’s just standing there, like a prude whose panties have been let down for the first time. Steve feels panic swirling inside of his belly like a thunderstorm that is inevitably getting closer as he looks inside of Billy’s baby blues and can’t read them, and it occurs to him,

That this was probably _a terrible_ idea.

Steve pulls back,

“Say— Say _something._ ” He demands.

Nothing. Silence is all he gets. Billy Hargrove, a guy who just can't keep his mouth shut most days, is standing silent in front of Steve. Looking at him with huge blue eyes.

_Well, fuck._

Let the news of Steve Harrington being a sissy and kissing other boys in the bathroom spread like wildfire down the halls of Hawkins High.

He swallows, takes half a step back, and tries to channel the cool motherfucker he used to be. He knows that _that_ Steve is still inside him, somewhere.

“I feel cheated,” He says, peeling his hand away from Billy’s pants, “This morning you had so much shit to say and now it’s like the cat ate your tongue.”

And that’s what _finally_ triggers something in Billy’s brain.

He yanks Steve by the shirt, tugs him close until his lips are positioned over his own again,

And it is very reminiscent of all of their previous encounters; violent, rough, not nice at all, prone to leave one of them if not both hurting. Billy’s tongue fights to push in, licking his way into Steve’s half-open mouth like he hadn’t hesitated to kiss him only just a few minutes earlier, delving deeper and deeper and _deeper_ until he can swallow the tiny whimpers Steve is letting out directly from his throat.

Billy’s fingers go up and grab fistfuls of baby-soft hair that he then pulls ruthlessly, and Steve pants,

“You— You're the _worst,_ ” His voice hoarse, low, has an undertone of relief when he stutters.

“ _Shut up,_ ” Billy mumbles against his red-bitten lips,

And Steve’s head feels fuzzy, like he’s high, “I’m so into you, God, _so into you_ ," He says, "You’re an _idiot,_ ”

“Hm, that sounds better,” He feels Billy smile into the kiss, the asshole. “Come get you a taste.”

Steve’s nails are raking down Billy’s golden chest, stretching the collar of his shirt beyond repair because the boy’s torso is for once covered and it’s fucking unnatural and Billy’s breath smells like mint and cigarettes and like fucking _summer,_ when he whispers,

“ _Goddamn,_ Harrington,” And it makes Steve’s breath hitch, “Feel like eating you alive right now,” Billy pulls back enough to see Steve’s bewildered yet needy expression, tosses him a wink, wrapping those big hands around his throat.

“Yeah?” And Billy nods, tilting his head to the side so Steve can drags his sleek tongue all over the exposed skin, his eyebrows furrowed in pleasure, “You fucking coward,” Steve nips playfully at the skin, chuckles under his breath, “You said you were here for your sunglasses.”

“Not cutting it anymore.”

So Billy’s pretty much thinking with his dick, Steve guesses, when he grabs Steve by the shoulders and shoves him against the wall, plops on his knees like he had been waiting for an excuse to do so,

And Steve, well, he’s pretty much thinking with his dick too, when he sees Billy kneeling in front of him, golden against pale green and grey, fumbling with his loops and making metal clank with those keen eyes looking up at him and _hell,_ Steve’s brain is not even registering his thoughts anymore when his hand slides down to cup Billy’s face. He's been so stupid all his damn life, so stupid!

Steve presses his thumb to his mouth until he opens, until he sucks, until he _slurps_ like it’s the most natural thing in the world to do.

He’s been around Billy long enough to know him, though. He knows Billy doesn’t want the soft pets or the sweet words. He’s Billy Hargrove, _for fuck’s sake_. “I thought you had said I wasn’t hot shit anymore. You don’t know what you fucking want.” And it’s _bratty,_ Steve can feel the familiar twitch on his lower lip that means that he's decidedly _not_ pouting. 

And it’s… It’s _too much_ , the way Billy grunts, pretending to be annoyed when he's actually hungry for Steve. Steve's finger eases out of Billy’s mouth, leaving a trail of his own spit across his cheek, his chin and _fuck,_ he watches, as Billy pulls his dick out from his jeans with an eager hand.

Steve’s not saying anything, though. He’s just driving his hips forwards in hopes that Billy will just, stuff his mouth with his dick and shut up and Oh _God_ — If he actually does, Steve is gonna fucking _lose it_. He can barely rub two brain-cells together as it is, Jesus.

Billy grins, sitting hard on his calves, mouth falling open, red-bitten and pliant and Steve wishes there was a way of telling him how good he looks without sounding needy but then Billy’s tongue is softly dragging over the head of his dick,

And _god fucking damnit, shit,_

Steve is in control. Steve _is totally_ in control.

It’s just that, it’s been a minute since he got his dick sucked, okay? Nancy had only done it once and it was lousy, so give the boy a minute, a fucking a grace period, because this, this feels fucking good. There’s something so indecent in the way Billy is looking up at him with his glimmery blue eyes like he knows _exactly_ the kind of effect he has on Steve, and it adds to this Saturday morning adventure a veneer of absolute craziness Steve just can’t get enough of.

Fuck everything Steve had thought earlier about wanting to stay home being a sap by the pool while his parents are somewhere in Europe. _This_ is what life is all about.

Billy’s throat, not sputtering or constricting. Billy looking up at him. That's easily the true meaning of life.

Steve finally touches the back of it and well, Steve’s mouth is agape. With the drag of Billy’s mouth pushing insolently down against his shaft, lowering himself another stubborn inch, Steve sighs, shuddering with his entire body, shamefully admitting to himself that if Billy keeps doing this the way he’s doing it, he won’t last very long.

And he doesn’t. Soon Billy is sealing his lips over Steve even tighter, sucking even harder, sliding up and down even faster, and Steve has never been able to match Billy’s pace; not in the court, not in fights, definitely not here,

“That's _good,_ ” he mutters, letting his head fall back against the cold tiles, and then

Then Billy gets a hand around Steve, and that’s— that’s a fucking game changer.

“Don’t, _don’t—_ ” Steve barely manages, deciding that Billy is smart enough to understand he means _don’t stop_. He's a grade-A student, after all. He's good at everything. Billy fucking Hargrove, trashy metalhead from hell, is good at everything. The thought makes Steve shudder, and this reaction makes Billy take it with a new sort of fever, head bobbing all eager and wet while his left hand strokes all along Steve’s length, “ _Shit,_ ” he sputters, breathlessly, and

He can feel it creeping in; he can feel his knees going out,

He comes, hard and violent, his pretty face twisted into something he hopes looks good. It's almost religious, the way his body and his goddamn brain disconnect for a minute there,

And it’s _good,_ it’s good that Billy is there to hold him up while he’s still coming and shaking and on the verge of sobbing, because otherwise his ass would have ended up limp on the floor.

“You threw me off-kilt,” Billy says, after a while, after Steve’s soul creeps back into his body and, Steve doesn’t get it? Maybe he came too hard and his brain is permanently damaged? Maybe Billy's voice, hoarse and ginger is making Steve's stomach feel all sorts of funny?

“…What?”

“When you kissed me,” Billy begins explaining, his hands working Steve’s zipper up after tucking him back into his jeans, “You threw me off-kilt.” He grins, far too smug, “It won’t happen again.”

“No?”

“Cross my heart, Harrington.” He says, smiling, a hand resting besides Steve’s head,

And Steve draws an X across Billy’s heaving chest, “Hope to die.”

They’re about to exchange salty saliva when Mr. Bolton tornadoes into the bathroom, like he’s literally seconds away from peeing his track suit, but freezes on the spot, his hand still on the doorknob at the sight of Billy Hargrove inches apart from Steve Harrington’s face, with his hands on his zipper and his messy hair and his tented pants and his red-bitten lips and _fucking hell_ , Steve’s hand, it’s still on Billy’s chest, and he looks _spent_ ,

“Can’t say this surprises me,” He says, crossing his arms, shaking his head like he’s both disappointed and fucking amused, “You two always act like a married couple anyways.”

“Mr. Bolton, _it’s not—_ ” Billy begins,

“Bag it, son. No need to explain,” He interrupts, his tone almost sympathetic, turning on his heels and closing the door behind him, with a smile on his face, “ _See you next Saturday_!” He yells, his voice muffling out as he walks away, “ _And the next one, and the one after that!_ ”

They both know they’ll have to inflate at least a million basketballs with no pump to squeeze their way out of this one. For now, though, Billy just slides his necklace over Steve's head, the pendant settling right in the middle of his chest.

"You're a fucking idiot."

"Fuck you, asshole."

**Author's Note:**

> I fell asleep with The Breakfast Club on and now it’s ingrained in my brain, so this is heavily influenced by it, at least until the smut part comes on.
> 
> [Read it on Tumblr](https://imamess-andsoismyblog.tumblr.com/post/189219590084/cross-my-heart-hope-to-die)


End file.
